Up and Down the Seventeen Steps
by Falco aesalon
Summary: A series of one-shots, arcs, drabbles and scraps about our favorite detective and other characters.  No slash, rating for safety and future "elbow room."  Updates will come as I find fomething to write about.
1. Of Pipe Cleaners and Bacon

Disclaimer applying to all chapters of this series: I do NOT own Sherlock Holmes, Dr. Watson or anything/anyone else you may recognize in this series.

{Dr. John H. Watson}

As I sat down to breakfast one morning, Holmes walked into the room holding his pipe and a pipe cleaner. He sat down at the table and started cleaning his pipe. I tried to ignore him, but I couldn't help but glance up every now and then. What I saw was not something one would want to see while eating breakfast.

Holmes had evidently not cleaned his pipe for quite some time, since what was coming out of it via the pipe cleaner was enough to make even Holmes's elder brother lose his appetite.

"Really, Holmes, do you need to do that at the breakfast table?"

Holmes looked up. "I do apologize, my dear Watson, I was rather absorbed in my train of though and hadn't realized that I had wandered over to the breakfast table."

"Indeed you were," I muttered and attempted to go back to my now cold breakfast.

Holmes, having cleaned his pipe to satisfaction, pocketed it and opened up today's newspaper to the agony columns.

"You might partake in this wonderful breakfast Mrs. Hudson has made," I said. "You haven't eaten anything in two days since beginning the investigation of the murders in the woodman's lee.

"Oh, very well, Watson." Holmes set the paper down and picked up a piece of toast.

"Excuse me for a moment, Holmes," I said. I got up and headed upstairs.

When I came back down, I held my pipe and a pipe cleaner. I do suppose the way I'd decided to get my revenge on Holmes was rather unscrupulous, but every man has his limits. One generally does not appreciate the sight of his fellow lodger cleaning the saliva out of his pipe while trying to eat.

I had had enough of Holmes sitting at the table during meals, cleaning one of his pipes. I was actually rather surprised to see him doing it, though I suppose it was because his old clay pipe got blocked up and he decided to simply clean them all.

Holmes deigned to glare at me and ask why I was cleaning my pipe while he was trying to eat.

I simply shrugged and replied that I thought he approved of pipe cleaning during meal times.

At this I was forced to dodge several rashers of bacon thrown in my direction.

...

I hope this wasn't too gross for everyone. But if you think about it, people did have to clean their pipes every now and then. And ten points to anyone who knows where the case Holmes was investigating was referenced!

Reviews make my day! (and motivate updates)


	2. The Science of Bee Culture

10 points to Silverdragonstar for the reference in the last chapter!

"_...the tragedy of Woodman's Lee and the very obscure circumstances which surrounded the death of Captain Peter Carey." ~The Adventure of Black Peter_

{Sherlock Holmes}

"Holmes!" roared my neighbor. "Keep your bees off my property! I've had enough of being stung by those filthy creatures!" Indeed, he had been stung several times. No doubt it was from swatting at my bees whenever they came near.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Anderson, but I think you might agree that it is rather impossible to keep close watch on thousands of bees." I should have known that my logic was wasted on him though.

"My patience is wearing thin with you and your blasted bees, Holmes! You'll pay if I ever see another one on my land!" And with that he left.

Anderson was intolerably rude. He seemed to think that his wealth gave him the power over everyone and everything, including retired consulting detectives of some renown.

The next day found Anderson at my door, screaming to me that he had found another bee on his property and was threatening to sue.

"My dear Mr. Anderson," I began.

"I am not your 'dear Mr. Anderson,' Holmes!" he snarled.

"You cannot prove that the bee you found belongs to me!" I snapped.

Anderson shouted more incomprehensible nonsense at me and stomped away, shouting various curses and insults which are too vulgar to repeat here in this journal (and some of which seriously questioned my integrity).

Every man has his limits and my patience with Anderson was wearing thin.

The nest day, I had sat down to write more of my book _A Practical Handbook of Bee Culture with Some Observations on the Segregation of the Queen_. I heard the sound of someone pounding at the door and shouted, "Come in!"

I didn't bother to look up as I had already deduced who it was. Although we were not on good terms with one another, it seemed as though Anderson was my most frequent visitor.

I finally deigned to look up from my work when Anderson cleared his throat. "H- _Mr_. Holmes, I need your help. A box containing an object of considerable value was stolen last night."

"Indeed," I replied. "How very unfortunate for you."

"Mr. Holmes, I know we haven't been on the best of terms lately, but you've got to help me-"

"Mr. Anderson, what was in the box that was stolen?"

"I'm afraid I can't tell you."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Anderson but I can't help you. That and the fact that I've retired and I plan to stay retired. Might I suggest that you go the police?"

"I might've known I wouldn't get any help from _you_," he muttered angrily.

As he left I couldn't help but feel a sense of what the French call _deja vu_ (this brought back memories of the case that Watson entitled "The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton). I nearly laughed out loud as I pulled out small wooden box. I had already known of the box's contents (though the fact that Anderson refused to tell me was insulting as it accused me of avarice).

Picking the lock was child's play and I had held before me a magnificent diamond. I returned the stone and the box during the following night.

The next morning, Anderson woke to find the box back in its proper place. Nothing appeared to be misplaced save that the box was unlocked.

The police were baffled that a thief would trouble himself to steal such a valuable stone only to return it the next night without leaving traces of his burglary. They wrote it off as a stunt pulled for the thrill of burgling a house, though I knew better.

I must admit, the satisfaction of witnessing Anderson's discomfort at coming to me for help was enough for me to stage a theft.

I would say that it brought positive results, seeing as Anderson never complained to me about my bees again.

...

Naughty, naughty Holmes! I must admit that Anderson was pretty despicable though. Anyone who has watched BBC's series Sherlock (with Benedict Cumberbatch as Holmes and Martin Freeman as Watson) will know how Holmes's neighbor got his name.

Reviews are _always_ appreciated!

EDIT: Huge thanks to pipilo for pointing out to me some bee keeping facts that I should have looked up in the first place.


	3. The Words I Would Say pt 1

I was listening to this song by Sidewalk Prophets and I thought the first verse sounded a bit like Holmes during the Great Hiatus.

_Three in the morning and I'm still awake  
So I picked up a pen and a page.  
And I started writing just what I'd say  
If we were face to face.  
I'd tell you just what you mean to me  
Tell you these simple truths._

...

"_Several times during the last three years I have taken up my pen to write you..."_ - The Adventure of the Empty House

{Sherlock Holmes}

The weather of southern France was very mild, but still nothing like the thick fog of London. I was staying in Montpellier, conducting research on coal-tar derivatives. I looked from my experiment to see one of the lab assistants running toward me, a sealed envelope in his hand.

"A letter for you, Monsieur Sigerson!"

"Thank you, Pierre."

The letter was from my brother Mycroft. I could deduce very little about the envelope, though I could tell that Mycroft was uncharacteristically sloppy when writing the address (the "n" on the end of "Sigerson" looked more like an "r")

The letter inside was quite to the point. Watson's wife was dead. She had died during childbirth and their daughter didn't survive longer than a month.

I sighed and let the letter fall to the floor. I repeatedly told myself that nothing I could do would change what happened.

That night I sat in the chair by the fireplace, puffing on my pipe and still thinking about Watson's loss. I was still sitting there when the clock struck twelve. Three o'clock found me laying in the bed, wide awake, listening to the loud Italian man's snoring from the next room. I finally got up and walked over to the desk, opened my notebook and began to write.

Again I had taken up my pen to write Watson, but I knew that I could never send it and that Watson could never read it. I set my pen down and realized that what I'd been writing was less like a letter and more like what I would say to him if he were here.

...

This is too short so I'll try to update soon. After all, I just _can't_ leave that notebook page unread. Reviews make my day!


	4. The Words I Would Say pt 2

_The Words I Would Say_ by Sidewalk Prophets  
_Last time we spoke you said you were hurting  
And I felt the pain in my heart.  
I want to tell you that I keep on praying  
Love will find you were you are._

...

"_In some manner he had learned of my own sad bereavement..."_ – The Adventure of the Empty House

{Dr. John H. Watson}

I had heard Holmes's reasons for allowing me to think him dead, but I still couldn't help feeling bitter over the deception. It seemed to me that Holmes had left me completely alone. Mary had helped me through Holmes's death; she had helped to fill the gap that Holmes had left. Then came the happy news that we were going to have a child. I thought life would take a turn for the better, but the cruel Fates decided to cut two threads of life, one far too short. Mycroft offered his condolences, but no one was there to fill the holes the loss of Holmes, Mary and little Elsie had created.

Then Holmes had made his miraculous return from the grave. I had fainted for the first and last time in my life upon seeing him standing in front of me. After the fantastic events which lead to the capture of Colonel Sebastian Moran, I moved back into our old Baker Street lodgings. They were the same as ever, Holmes's unanswered correspondence still knifed to the mantelpiece, the cigars still in the coal scuttle, the V.R. in bullet pock marks still adorning the wall.

This day (a few months after Holmes's Return) marked exactly one year after my wife and daughter's deaths. I awoke that morning to find Holmes gone on some errand or other. The weather was fair, so later that morning, I walked to the cemetery where Mary and Elsie were buried. After staring at the headstones for about half an hour, I strolled to Hyde Park where I thought about what had happened over the last three years. After several hours walking through the park, it started to become dark out so I took a cab back to Baker Street.

On my return, I found that Holmes had also returned.

"Where have you been all day?" he asked.

"I might ask the same of you," I said.

"Lestrade wanted some help identifying a corpse," said Holmes. "Now where have you been?"

"I think you might be able to deduce that for yourself," I replied bitterly.

Holmes thought for a moment then said, "You seem to be feeling the loss of your wife and child more today. Is it the day marking a year after their deaths?"

"Yes," I said, the pain welling up inside me, threatening to explode at the way Holmes had so carelessly thrown out the topic of my loss.

"Yes, that would explain your unusually harsh tone of voice. You have seemed rather on edge lately."

I was normally far more patient, but it was as Holmes described it; looking back I realize that I had been more impatient and intolerant than usual. Unfortunately, I was thinking more about Holmes's deception, how he had allowed me to think him dead for three years. I thought about how he had been exploring Tibet or conducting research in France when I needed him most. I thought of Mary who, after all she'd been through, couldn't survive childbirth. I thought of Elsie, our daughter, whom Death had claimed all too soon.

Suddenly I found myself shouting at Holmes, all the pain that had been buried during the excitement surrounding Holmes's return pouring out. I do not remember what I said, nor do I wish to, but I knew it must have hurt Holmes deeply. I do remember that Holmes had stared at me with his mouth hanging slightly open; my sudden outburst had probably given him quite a shock. Under any other circumstances it would have been quite comical, but "comical" was the last thing on my mind. It happened so fast and it ended with me storming off to my bedroom and Holmes staring after me in shock.

About a half hour later, I realized what I had said and felt terribly guilty so I returned to the sitting room to find that Holmes had left, taking his hat and coat with him.

Suddenly I noticed a small book lying under Holmes's chair. My curiosity getting the better of me, I bent down to pick it up. It was Holmes's notebook, the one he'd had with him when we were fleeing Moriarty. I thumbed through it and found the spot with the three missing pages. The next several pages were filled with notes on coal-tar derivatives when at last I came to a page containing a note addressed to myself.

As I read it, I realized that Holmes did care, despite that fact that he doesn't always show it.

When Holmes returned I was waiting for him with an apology. I knew our friendship still had trials to come, but if we could weather this storm, I truly believed we could stand through anything.

{Sherlock Holmes}

I returned to Baker Street to find Watson asleep in his armchair. He had evidently been waiting up for me; a book lad fallen onto the floor beside him. I picked it up to find that it was one of my notebooks, the one that contained my notes on coal-tar derivatives. I looked at the page it was open to, the letter I had written Watson after hearing of his sad bereavement. Watson must have read it and decided that I did care (he had said that I didn't during his angry outburst). Good old Watson, wanting to apologize when he every right to be angry with me. I decided against waking Watson; he deserved a decent night's sleep after all that had happened. Again, I looked at the words I had penned in my notebook and I read them aloud, even though I knew Watson was sleeping and couldn't hear me. When I finished, I could have sworn I saw a slight smile on his face.

...

So what did you think? If it seemed a little fast, Watson had been somewhat depressed for a while (I would be knowing that the anniversary of a loved one's death was coming up) and then he read that note. Holmes doesn't appear to want his softer, more caring side shown to the general public and deleted what I had typed up of the letter.


End file.
